The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [167]
‘You didn't, though, did you?’ I said nervously, as I sat down on the bed beside her. I hadn't exactly had a ringside seat, what with muscling through all those hats. ‘You only slapped her, didn't you?’
‘Tragically,’ she muttered, flopping back on her pillows. ‘Must be my upbringing. Couldn't make a fist. I wish I bloody had, though.’
The door opened softly and Felicity stood in the doorway: very pale, very shaken, her hat at an unusual angle. I flung myself on top of Caro as she rose up from the marital bed like The Thing From the Swamp, all bared teeth and seasick-making eyes, a bit like Mr Rochester's first wife.
‘Arrrrghhh!’ she shrieked.
‘Caro! Pull yourself together!’ I yelled, pushing her shoulders down forcefully, wondering if I should slap her myself. ‘Felicity, I'm not convinced this is the moment,’ I squealed over my shoulder.
Suddenly Caro went limp under my hands. Flopped submissively back into the pillows again.
‘Let her come,’ she said darkly, ‘why not? Let's see what she's got to say for herself. Bring it on, I say. I hope you've got a good lawyer, Felicity. You'll need one.’
I cringed. Oh, this was horrible. Horrible. They were such friends. I wished I wasn't alone with them.
‘Yes, you're quite right,’ Felicity whispered, coming – rather bravely, I felt – to stand at the end of the bed. She looked almost unrecognizable. Her lipstick was smudged round her mouth, her pallor deathly, her eyes circled with grey. I saw her take a breath to steady herself. ‘I will need a lawyer. Because I don't have any defence. I did take your money.’
Oh Lord. I crumpled inside. Felt Caro stiffen beside me, as, simultaneously, Tim appeared in the open doorway. He didn't come in, just stayed there, quietly propped on a crutch.
‘But not immediately. I didn't know about that letter,’ she glanced at me, then round at Tim, ‘until well after your father died. Like you, I assumed he died intestate. After all, he hadn't told me he'd made a will, and we were happily married, so surely I'd know? Normally it's something husbands and wives do together, isn't it?’
I nodded. Yes it was. Ant and I had made one together. Relatively recently in fact, promoted by Dad's not doing so.
‘First wives, perhaps!’ snarled Caro, looking and sounding now like something out of Dante's upper circle of hell.
Felicity went on, ignoring her, ‘Evie and I took that room apart, didn't we?’ I nodded enthusiastically again; oh please, let this be all right. ‘Drawer by drawer, file by file, box by box and we found nothing. And then I moved out and you moved in,’ she looked steadily at Caro, ‘because even though it wasn't written down that you should have the house, I knew it was what Victor wanted. He'd told me so. But I could have stayed. First or second wife, the house was legally mine. In a court of law it would automatically have gone to me.’ Caro looked less sure of herself; glanced quickly at her husband. Tim's face was hard to read.
‘So when did you find the letter?’ I prompted gently.
‘Almost a year later, when I'd been at my house in Fairfield Avenue for a good nine months. I went to MOT the car. Found the log book in the bureau, together with the grey plastic folder with all the documents. Inside was the tax certificate and the latest MOT, and tucked behind that, the piece of paper.’
I remembered Maroulla telling me she'd put it back when she'd copied it, not in Dad's messy drawer where she thought it would get lost, but in a very important-looking folder, with certificates. Birth certificates, she'd thought. I swallowed.
‘It was a beautiful summer's day, I remember it vividly. I even remember what I